They say funerals bring out the best and worst in people. In my case, it was mostly the latter.

It was a cloudy Tuesday morning, and I was standing by the church entrance, arms wrapped around myself, watching a steady stream of black coats and solemn faces shuffle past. My husband, Eric, stood to my right, silent and stiff, his eyes glued to the casket as if trying to memorize it.

He hadn’t said much since his mother passed away a week ago. I couldn’t blame him. Grief settles on people in different ways, and with him, it was quiet. Heavy. Like an anchor.

His older brother, Mark, was a different story. He stood near the front pew, dabbing at the corners of his eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief, but the smug twitch of his lips gave him away.